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Book #2 in Austin Outlaws Hockey

Outlaws Single Mom Worth Scoring    

The stick was for my son. The man who rescues me when I catch it? Him, I’m keeping for myself.

My parents gave me a spa weekend and hockey tickets. Oh joy (not).

So here I am, attending my very first hockey game with zero idea what a forecheck is.

Somehow, I still manage to catch a stick tossed over the glass after the game-winning goal.

And now five drunk idiots want to steal it away.

That’s when Brant appears.

Whew, boy. He’s big and broad and so utterly capable when he steps between me and trouble, escorts me safely back to my hotel, patches up my scratched cheek with impossibly gentle hands, and introduces me to his traveling companion—an elderly diabetic cat.

Did I mention the dimple?

I’m responsible, cautious Cori. Single mom, night-shift hotel supervisor, part-time student, and champion overthinker with a plan for everything.

Falling for the mysterious Canadian who rescues me during my weekend in Colorado is definitely not part of those careful plans.

Then he asks about my son.

And when I finally show him a picture, braced for him to bolt?

He asks to see more.

He’s protective, oh so tempting, and—ack!—definitely keeping secrets.

For once in my carefully planned life, I decide not to care.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

EXCERPT

Brant

I keep getting distracted by the colorful bandages on her hand—one on her palm, another on the tip of her middle finger. Is she a kindergarten teacher? A mom with kids at home? Why is she here alone?

And why the hell do I keep watching her? Wondering about her?

The game ends with our section erupting as the home team pulls off the win. In the midst of the cheering, one of the players—Jastrzebski, the kid she’s been yelling for—tosses his stick over the glass. It arcs through the air and lands practically in her lap. I think she’s going to wince away from the flying stick but she surprises me, jumping for it with a whoop!

Her face lights up like a kid at Christmas. She clutches the stick to her chest, bouncing up and down, turning to high-five the elderly couple next to her before they rise to exit.

Then I see them.

A few rows over, a group of five or six guys who’ve been pounding beers all game. Their eyes locked on the stick. On her. They exchange looks.

Shit.

I’m aiming for her before I realize it, jamming my phone into a pocket and pushing past two teenagers, an older man, and a woman with leftover nachos as I fight against the crowd moving en masse away from the rink now that the game is over.

The group of drunk assholes takes advantage and converges on her, one of them already reaching for the stick. “That’s mine, cupcake.”

“I caught it!” she argues, hugging it to her chest.

“That souvenir’s wasted on you. Bet you don’t even know which end to hold,” another one slurs, making a grab for it.

I shove between two of them just as things escalate from awkward to dangerous.

“Back off,” I growl, putting myself between her and the grabbing hands.

One of them recognizes me—the flash in his bloodshot eyes as he does a double take and recoils tells me I’ve been made. But the others just see another obstacle.

“Mind your business,” one sneers, and lunges for the stick.

I block him with my shoulder, but another guy reaches around, his fingers catching her face. She yelps in pain, and I snap. I might have retired from the league two and a half years ago, but I’ve been skating since I was four. Nearly a lifetime of knowing exactly how to move in tight spaces, of protecting teammates—it all kicks in.

I get an arm around her waist, pull her and the stick away from grasping hands. My other arm comes up, creating space as I maneuver us toward the aisle.

“Security!” I bark, catching the eye of an usher at the end of the row who’s been drawn by the noise.

The drunks haven’t given up. One of them catches the end of the stick, tries to wrench it free. She holds tight, but the momentum sends her stumbling into me. I catch her fully against my chest, steadying her with both arms.

And for one fraction of a second, time stops. Her eyes—those rich brown eyes, like the sweet Texas tea I’ve become addicted to since moving south, deep and lush with golden light catching in their depths—look up into mine, wide with adrenaline and something else. Her body presses against me, soft where I’m hard, curves fitting perfectly against me.

Sweet mother of hockey.

Security arrives, breaking the moment. The drunks retreat, mumbling excuses and muttering about misunderstandings. The usher asks if we want to file a complaint. I look down at her, see the torn skin on her cheek where one of those assholes caught her with a fingernail, and feel my blood boil.

“You okay?” I ask, still holding her.

She nods, breathless, clutching the stick between us.

“Want to make an official complaint? I saw the whole thing. I’ll back you.”

“That’s not necessary.” She blinks up at me and makes no move to put space between us.

“No thanks,” I tell the hovering usher, who nods and, following security, herds the troublemakers off in the opposite direction.

“Let’s get you somewhere safe.” I place my hand at the small of her back, ready to escort her anywhere. “Name’s Brant.”

And damned if I don’t feel like I’ve just scored in overtime.

Coralie

I’m clutching the stick against my chest as if it’s made of gold, not— Whatever in the world they really make these sticks out of. My heart caroms against my ribs as I stare up at the man who just appeared out of nowhere to rescue me.

Holy. Father. Of. Forecheck.

That’s a hockey term, right? I think I heard the announcer say it. Not that I care about terminology when I’m pressed against what feels like a wall of muscle. A very hard, very male wall of muscle.

“You okay?” he asks. “Want to make an official complaint?”

I’m trying to form actual words when he adds, “I’ll back you.”

Wow. A man who can be relied on? “That’s not necessary.”

Not with him still holding me. His strong arm around my waist screams solid protection. The security guards are dealing with the drunk guys who tried to wrestle the stick away, but all I can focus on is how this man’s body feels against mine.

Strong and sexy and, oh my goodness, so darn good.

“Let’s get you somewhere safe,” he says, and I feel it more than hear it when the deep tone rumbles over me. “Name’s Brant.”

“Cori, with an I,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy. “Or Cora; I’ll answer to either. Thanks for the rescue.”

Blathering much? He doesn’t need to know how to spell your name!

“Glad my timing’s still decent.” His arm moves up to my shoulders as he guides us toward the exit. 

“Decent? Try impeccable.” His touch. It’s been forever since a man touched me, and with such casual confidence. Five years, to be exact—since freshman year of college, before I discovered I was pregnant and my boyfriend vanished faster than my scholarship prospects. “This isn’t for me. It’s a gift,” I blurt, gripping the stick tighter. “For someone back home.”

I can’t believe I didn’t just tell him it’s for Cal. My son, who I’m not ashamed of. But oh, the weight of his hand cupping my shoulder? The heat of him along my side? My thoughts are scrambled like yesterday’s breakfast.

“The kid who tossed it your way—Jastrzebski—he’s having a breakout season.”

“I kinda noticed,” I say with a small laugh. “Even a hockey novice like me can tell he’s really good.”

As we reach the main concourse, the crowd thins. Brant doesn’t remove his protective arm, and I don’t ask him to. Instead, I breathe in, catch the scent of him—something spicy and fresh, like winter forests with a hint of cinnamon. I actually have to swallow to keep from doing something embarrassing. Like licking his neck to see if he tastes as good as he smells.

Get a grip, Cora. You’re a mother. A professional. Not some hormone-crazed teenager.

My body doesn’t seem to care. It’s been on autopilot since I felt his muscular arms around me.

“You’re bleeding.” He stops under a bright light near the exit doors and turns me to face him.

His thumb brushes my cheek where one of those jerks caught me with a nail. The scrape stings, but that’s not why I suck in a breath. It’s the gentleness in his hand, the concern in his eyes.

“It’s just a scratch.” Though I’m keenly aware of the hot throb blazing across my cheekbone.

“Let me look at it properly.” While he studies my face, I stare at his eyes. They’re a Caribbean blue-green that makes me think of vacations and seizing whatever else remains of mine. “We should clean that,” he says, “keep it from becoming infected. I’ve got a first aid kit that’s easy to get to. I’m staying at the hotel next door.”

“So you’re not local either?” The responsible part of my brain—the part that’s kept me and Cal afloat for years—whispers caution. But there’s another voice that’s been silent since the day my ex-boyfriend couldn’t run off fast enough, and it’s suddenly hollering so loud I can barely hear anything else. Big man. Sexy man. Caring man. And he’s focused that caring on me.

“I’m on a bit of a driving road trip,” he confirms.

And he’s staying at The Star? The coincidence nearly makes me giddy. He’s older than me, maybe late thirties, with shoulders that fill out his blazer in a way that remind me just how long it’s been since I’ve touched a man. Been held by one. There’s an easy self-assurance in how he stands, how he moved us through that crowd. How he’s looking at me now, prompting all sorts of fluttery feelings I haven’t experienced in years.

You mean in ever.

Yeah, that. 

“I actually work for the chain,” I tell him. “Lone Starique: San Antonio.” Stop talking, Cor. You’re babbling. “Assistant night supervisor.”

His eyebrows lift. “That so?”

“Yep. The original. The flagship location.” I make a clicking noise with my tongue. Can I help it if I sound a little proud? It truly is a nice hotel, and I lucked out getting a job there and a couple of subsequent promotions. “Yes, sir, been with the company a little over three years.” I sound like I’m reciting my résumé, but I need him to know I’m not completely reckless. “If-if I go with you and you try anything shady, I know exactly who to call.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. I absolutely am not prepared for how my stomach responds to that. “So noted. I promise the only thing I’m planning is antiseptic and maybe some ice for that cheek.”

“Mmhmm.” Is that a sound of agreement I’m making? Or one of disappointment? 

We exit the stadium into the biting February air, gobs colder now that it’s night. I shiver, and he moves closer.

“What are the odds?” I ask, trying to distract myself from how good he feels next to me. “That you saw all that go down when everyone was leaving, and could jump in and rescue me?”

“I’m a big believer in timing,” he says, voice going raspy. 

“My timing’s usually terrible.” I laugh, thinking of my parents’ gift. “This whole trip was supposed to be a break, a fun weekend for me and a friend. Mom and Dad arranged everything—spa, the flight and hotel, hockey tickets. My mom’s way of saying I work too hard, between night shifts and classes and…ahm.” I swallow Cal’s name, not ready to tell this hot stranger I’m a single mom.

What’s it going to matter? It’s not like he’s proposing, just offering to clean your cheek.

“They’re probably at home right now, watching hockey replays and collecting more terms to confuse me with when Dad grills me about tonight’s game.”

“Not a big fan?”

“It seems...” I hesitate, not wanting to insult his obvious love of the sport. I mean, why else would he attend alone, and in the middle of a business trip? “Dangerous. All that bumping into each other and the walls—”

“Boards.”

“Right, boards.” The hotel looms ahead, its elegant façade glowing in the night. “Banging into boards and into each other while zooming around the ice at like fifty miles an hour? And—”

“More like twenty, unless you’re a phenom.”

I’m laughing now, aim a pointy elbow at his side. “Just how do you know so much about hockey? You played, didn’t you?” I groan. “You played, and here I’ve gone and insulted you.”

“You haven’t insulted anyone and yeah. I played in-in college.”

“Okay, fine, keep those corrections coming, then. But even at a mediocre twenty? Hitting boards at twenty, plus all the fighting?”

“So says the woman who just fought off five drunks for a hockey stick.”

“Your cheek’s starting to swell.” His thumb brushes just below the scratch again, sending sparks zooming down my spine, over my butt and straight to my toes.

“Worth it,” I whisper, and I’m not talking about the hockey stick anymore.

“Yeah. Think so, too.”

Maybe he isn’t either.

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